I’ve done my own taxes and so I’m allowed to say: Sometimes I don’t want to be an adult.
Okay, listen. I appreciate that reasoned, measured action is almost always the best way to go, that the high road is the option to take, that calmness will get your farther than hysteria.
But when do I get to cash in my karma chips? Where are my dramatic and measurable results? At what point do I get a medal for resisting the urge to drunkenly call my meanest coworker and tell her what I think of her? When do I save a burning building full of kindergardeners because I remembered to pick up the dry cleaning on time?
You say, That’s the point of adulthood. You say, You learn to validate yourself intrinsically. You say, The reward is doing the right thing and if that’s not enough, you need to grow up.
I say, I’m sorry, I can’t hear you, my ears don’t work very well when I’m not wearing a medal for mature use of social media.
You say, It builds character.
I say, Have you MET me? If I get much more character I’ll burst. Seriously, this is what creates multiple personality disorder. I’m practically giving character away.
You say, Come on, you have almost no responsibilities apart from keeping yourself afloat. You have no right to complain.
I say, Shut up.
I’ve been [insert age] going on 35 for a decade now, and what has it gotten me? Other than a nearly drama-free life, great friends, a stable job, a wonderful family, a theatre company, good health, no known enemies or burned bridges and a surprisingly high amount of self-esteem and self-understanding?
Yeah, that’s right. Answer me THAT.
If you need me, I’ll be having ice cream for dinner. Except I don’t like ice cream as much as I used to, so it might be steamed broccoli.